


can't leave it alone

by cartographies



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Dildos, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, Handicrafts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26566789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographies/pseuds/cartographies
Summary: Eliot and Quentin share a scone.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 32
Kudos: 92





	can't leave it alone

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by some lines in jessalae's (hot, wonderful, recommended!) fic ["wanting (was enough)"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518273). I elaborate a little on that in the endnotes.
> 
> Thank you to Gillian/knifetop, who with great patience gives me fic titles when I demand.

Eliot Waugh is the first person to fuck Quentin Coldwater. 

Quentin turns to him one day and says, “Can we—will you—I’ve never…” and so two weeks into this new hallucinatory phase of Eliot’s life where Quentin lets Eliot put his mouth all over him, where they kiss on the mosaic for what seems like hours, where they rut together like horny teenagers of the sort that Eliot never quite got to be, where Quentin allows Eliot to kneel before him and undo his loose Fillorian pants and pull out his sturdy looking, lovely cock and suck it to hardness in his mouth and permits himself to be strongly encouraged to put his hands in Eliot’s hair, where Eliot looks up with his mouth full because it is suddenly the most important thing in the entire course of Eliot’s worthless life that he see Quentin’s face given over to blissful abandonment, his eyes screwed closed, his mouth panting open, only for Eliot to actually look up and in fact see—

Quentin’s wide open eyes locked on Eliot’s face, looking entranced by the sight of his cock thrusting in and out of Eliot’s mouth, and Eliot had felt an electric burst of almost painful arousal that made him moan around Quentin, that made his eyes water like Quentin’s very manageable dick was much larger. Because Eliot had thought to see Quentin’s eyes closed, because, hey, a mouth is a mouth (and, somewhere in the back of his mind ran the thought: an asshole is a hole it’s nice to fuck, and so maybe Quentin could be induced to fuck Eliot) and it’s been a long lonely year and Quentin is surely as sick as Eliot is of no relief other than his own hand. 

—where Quentin proves willing—no, god, come on, give it up already _—eager_ to suck Eliot’s cock, desperate, absolutely _gagging_ for Eliot’s dick in his throat, where sometime around the fifth time in forty-eight hours Eliot is fucking Quentin’s mouth at Quentin’s express request, albeit a request made via very evocative hand signals because Quentin’s voice is so shot, Eliot finally has to give up what he’d never truly believed all along but had instead only assumed in a pathetic attempt at self-protection, and admit Quentin Coldwater is not a heterosexual...two weeks into this exciting upheaval of all Eliot’s expectations and hopes, Eliot responds to Quentin’s nervous stuttering with an affirmative and frankly generous, “yes, Q you can have my raspberry scone,” and Quentin furiously stutters a little more and says hotly, “You don’t have to make fun of me,” and Eliot says, “I’m not making fun of you, what would the fun be in saying you could have my raspberry scone and then taking it away. I’m not a monster,” because _really_ , those raspberry scones were too good to joke about, and Quentin, inexplicably near tears, replies, strangled, “It’s not even—it’s not a clever euphemism! A _scone_! It’s nothing like a _scone_!” and Eliot is like hm, maybe there’s been a failure of communication here and says, “Hm. I think there’s been a failure of communication here,” and with a small outraged groan, Quentin shoots back, “Yes! There has! I was going to ask you to _fuck me_ , Eliot,” and Eliot drops the spoon he was holding, singeing his fingers on a steaming hot pot of oatmeal as, brain screeching to a halt, he fumbles to rescue it with his bare hands, because this entire conversation happened while Eliot was fucking cooking breakfast. 

Hence the scones. 

Well. Well then. Of course Eliot will.

He gets Quentin in his arms immediately and starts soothing his injured dignity, Quentin somehow spiny in his embrace like a hedgehog and grumbling into Eliot’s shirtfront as Eliot laughs at Quentin and himself too, around a bristling lump of nerves that has promptly taken up residence right behind his breastbone.

“If that’s what you want, of course,” Eliot says. “Of course we’ll do that. But...”

“Don’t say you’ll give me your scone and then take it away, Waugh, that’s _not funny_ ,” Quentin says, because Quentin _is_ funny—and delightful, and strange, and dear. 

“No, never. All my scones are yours, always.”

Eliot doesn’t get the tone quite right. 

But it doesn’t matter, because Eliot smells the oatmeal starting to burn and they can’t miss breakfast because they are living a pretty subsistence-level existence, here. After they eat it’s time go and get a couple of mosaic patterns in off the heartiness of said breakfast, anticipating the guilt these dutiful efforts will need to offset when they inevitably stop early to fuck. 

Or in this instance, talk about fucking.

“But _what_ ,” Quentin says, around noon. 

Eliot doesn’t bother pretending ignorance about what Quentin is referring to. It would simply be tacky. “ _But_ my cock is huge.” 

“Oh,” Quentin says, brought up short in genuine surprise. “Oh, that’s all?”

“That’s all?” Eliot laughs. “There’s nothing _that’s all_ about it. Why, what did you think I was going to say?” 

“Something like _but oh Quentin, how can you ever be sure you want me to take your butt virginity_ …”

“OK, Q, #1: talking about it like an especially brain dead eighth grader would not exactly assuage any doubts, should I have any, which—not exactly—” (Eliot is so full of shit. He’s furious that Quentin saying the words _butt virginity_ actually made his cock sit up and take notice, like it always does when Quentin acts like the grossest teenage boy, which is not infrequently, it’s like, a whole thing? Eliot would call it arrested development, but then what do you call the fact that Quentin acting like a sweaty, basement-dwelling horndog, frantically jerking it raw 24/7 with Cheeto-dust stained fingers and fueled by nothing but Mountain Dew and Playstation, actually gets him...kind of hot???) “—and #2: yeah, fuck me for caring about your _enthusiastic consent_ —”

“Is that what that is?” Without warning, Quentin gives Eliot one of those looks that can make him feel flayed open. A calm, considering look, all the force of Quentin’s kind, penetrating attention when he’s at his most thoughtful, directed at Eliot. 

“Yes,” Eliot says. Because it is. Eliot doesn’t think anything has ever mattered so much to him as making sure Quentin wants everything they do together. It’s just...maybe some other stuff too. “Always. But as I said, what I was actually referring to this time is my enormous dick.” 

Quentin’s eyes go dark as he breathes out, “Yeah.” Then a familiar look of stubborn determination settles on his face. “I can take it.”

There’s a fluttering in Eliot’s stomach that a burst of accompanying amusement can’t quite overpower. His brave little toaster. The little engine that could. 

“I know you could. But I’m a lot to take. I’m not being arrogant—” Quentin gives a disbelieving, yet Eliot believes fond, laugh at this, “—well, okay, yes, but it’s based in fact too. In inches. A cold...hard...eight inches. So I’m also being practical. Because—to use your own base parlance, you Neanderthal—you’re a _butt virgin_. I’m just saying we’ll have to work you up to it.” 

“Neanderthals were actually, like, really smart? They buried their dead and stuff, and they may have actually made musical instruments although that’s a subject of anthropological debate—”

Eliot has no choice but to tackle Quentin backwards on to the mosaic and press kisses all over his face, and then at the way he giggles and squirms Eliot is left with no other possible course of action but to shimmy down and under the gods’ hot sun suck Quentin’s cock on the tiles as they bake in the heat, sweat sticking Eliot’s shirt to his back, and since he’s been given permission of a sort, to slide a finger into the tight clutch of Quentin’s body. The _noises_ he makes. His smell. Clean boy sweat, sweat from good honest labor: salt and fresh-mown grass. 

Afterwards they go inside the cottage and take an indulgent siesta. At ease in their nudity, the blankets on the bed thrown back and the little building very warm even with all the windows and the door open, but made temporarily worthwhile for the false cool of dimness, for refuge from the harsh afternoon glare. Quentin rests his sun-pinkened face on Eliot’s collarbone and says, “I’ve been fingered before, actually.”

Quentin says this in tones of apology. Is he really so obvious? Eliot makes a proactive choice to not to examine this question further, because yes, good god, he does actually feel a pang of disappointment. Which he attempts to distract himself from by pitching his voice low and asking, “Who fingered that pretty little asshole first, hm?” and this uncouth display does succeed in distracting himself from his ludicrous feelings of loss by simply replacing them with panic upon a flash of whiskey-sodden memory lighting up his hippocampus. The sight of the flexing muscles of Margo’s lower back, of her ass, as she rode Quentin’s face, glimpsed in fragments from where Eliot simultaneously moved two fingers inside Quentin until he was totally useless to Margo, too busy was he obeying the harsh shouts that Eliot was pulling from him with every twist of his hand. 

Does Quentin freeze in alarm too, or is Eliot imagining it? Eliot wants Quentin to say: _you, you, of course it was you,_ and he also fears he’ll say it.

Quentin says, “Um. Well. The last time was a middle-aged, mid-tier bank executive...”

All possible contemplation of how Quentin had nearly sidestepped Eliot’s question vanishes in the face of the incredible tidbit of information he chose to evade with. 

“When was this?” Eliot is delighted. 

This is how Eliot learns that, in the course of their bank heist, Quentin got fingered in a bar bathroom by Elaine from branch security. 

“So what you’re telling me is that, instead of Margo’s classic finger-in-cocktail trick, you had this woman put her finger up your ass?”

Eliot is losing his mind. Who even is this kid? Who allowed this?

“She was—she was, um, blowing me? And it just kind of...happened...okay, stop laughing, it’s not that funny.”

But Quentin is laughing too. Pink-on-pink, dimpled, lovely.

“Q, you got fingered by a middle-aged woman in the course of a bank heist undertaken to pay for your best friend’s magical abortion. It’s absolutely that funny.”

Eliot can feel Quentin’s grin hidden against his chest. “Yeah, fine. It wasn’t actually _fun_ though. It kind of hurt. Her nails were too long.”

Wow. Eliot is going to find this Elaine from bank security and...do something. 

_You sure had fun when I did it. That night, with Margo, I remember—_

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before now,” Eliot says. He feels Quentin’s shoulder blades move in a shrug under his palm. 

“I did think ‘Eliot would get a kick out of it.’It’s ridiculous. That’s something I thought while you were in a coma. _I might never get to tell him this_.”

“Not ridiculous. Very astute insight into my character, there. I think that’s what woke me up. I sensed it: right now, Quentin Coldwater is being fingered— _”_

“You’re off chronologically. It had already happened by then.”

“...I sensed it: Quentin Coldwater has recently been fingered. It brought me back to life. I’m sure of it.”

There’s something about laughing while lying chest-to-chest with another person. Something fucking magical, honestly. 

Quentin is not one to be put off when he’s set his mind on something. And it turns out he’s set his mind on this. He sits up and looks Eliot dead in the eye and says: “So. Yeah. I’ve been fingered before. And I want you to fuck me.”

Eliot swallows. Laughter vanished. “It’s different than being fingered.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, I can figure that much out. You don’t need to patronize me.” Then a look of nervousness flashes over Quentin’s face. “I know _I_ want to but I guess I just assumed you’d want to? Which I probably shouldn’t have done. God, sorry. You said, of course we can do that if it’s what I want but—I don’t know what _you_ want? You didn’t say anything about that, you didn’t say you wanted it—”

“I want it.” Eliot’s voice sounds like he’s been gargling gravel. Barely audible, scraped raw. “God, of course I want that.”

“Oh,” Quentin says softly. Relieved, and biddable to Eliot drawing him down so they’re lying side by side, facing each other.

Eliot bumps his nose with Quentin’s, and is gifted with a smile. “I just want to make sure you have a good time. That’s all.”

Of course it’s not all. Eliot is still scared he’ll frighten Quentin off. He knows it’s absurd, given how enthusiastically Quentin has taken to cocksucking. That’s objectively gayer than getting fucked in the ass, which like, he knows the spiel, lots of pleasurable nerve endings back there, the prostate, it has nothing to do with a guy’s sexuality, many straight men have embraced the beautiful world of assplay, etcetera. Whatever, cool, great. It still feels different. A decisive, hideously intimate step, one that overcomes Eliot with a daunting sense of responsibility. 

“I know, Eliot. I’m not worried. You always do,” Quentin says earnestly. Then, eagerly: “You said we could work me up to it. That’s fine, you can finger me some more.”

Really the whole spectrum of Quentin Coldwater emotion there. Dazing Eliot with that sweet trust only to end on begrudging petulance: he’ll _allow_ Eliot to finger him, if Eliot _must_. 

“Mm,” Eliot says. Smiling, charmed, hopeless. He has to kiss Quentin some more, and then he says: “I was thinking, if we were on Earth, I would work you up to it with toys.”

“Oh, well. No sex shops here. So you’ll just have to fuck me then.” Quentin has started brattily playing with Eliot’s cock, which has been responding to the alternating signals of arousal and terror that Eliot’s brain is wildly sending out with some confusion. Like: _yeehaw, let’s go!_ when a heady pulse of blood shot straight to his groin upon hearing Quentin say _finger me_ and: _fine, OK, Jesus_ _Christ_ when he wilted slightly at finding himself stricken by mortal terror as he contemplated the depths of his—of his feelings for Quentin. 

Now Quentin toys with the head of Eliot’s half-hard but rapidly stirring cock, much as he likes to play with Eliot’s fingers when they lie in bed together. Running his fingers along the head like he simply likes the feel of it.

“I have another idea,” Eliot says, and rolls them over. 

Thus begins the longest edging scene of Eliot’s life. 

First, he learns how to whittle. Monsieur Waffles the chimpanzee is an excellent tutor in this fine and ancient art, but this still takes a couple of months. He has to practice on various projects: an owl, a fish, a tiny chess queen with a poor attempt at Margo Hanson’s face. 

Then he can begin on his true goal. 

By that point, Quentin has reached a truly crazed state. Riding Eliot’s hand, asshole convulsing around three of Eliot’s fingers, eyes rolling back in his skull. 

_Please, please, Eliot, fuck me, fuck, please._

_I am fucking you. Look how crazy I’m driving you, with only my fingers. That’s it, baby, you love fucking yourself on my hand._

See, the summer after their first year, he and Margo would go to London through the portal they’d set up in her closet and catch budget flights to Europe from Heathrow or Stansted. Mallorca, Nice, Athens. Once they’d been wandering through Prague’s Old Town hand in hand and had happened upon a baroque building with the sign SEX MACHINES MUSEUM on its door and had turned to each other in delight. Of course they’d gone in and Eliot had been introduced to the idea that humanity’s desire to put various things inside themselves for the purposes of sexual fulfillment was a fundamental pursuit with a long and strange history. 

They might be trapped in Ye Olde Fillory, but Eliot could still make his baby a dick. 

When Eliot kindly explains this goodness and ingenuity to Quentin, he becomes absolutely _unhinged_ : to be specific, he pushes Eliot down and rides Eliot’s face while jerking himself off; Eliot, in a state of erotic shock, can only hold on for the ride, worrying bruises into Quentin’s cheeks and licking desperately inside Quentin’s hole while Quentin jerks himself to completion to a backdrop of dark mutterings about the depths of Eliot’s perversity. Ropes of come splatter against Eliot’s stomach, his _dick_ , shockingly hot in the cooling evening air as the world tumbles into fall.

Everything is going great. 

Afterwards Quentin has some concerns about putting a dick made of wood inside his body, which, fair, but Eliot can confidently assert from the only museum plaque he can ever recall reading in full that human beings have been putting wooden dildos inside various orifices for millennia and also they’re magicians. No splinters, magic guaranteed. 

His first attempt is met with a now familiar ingratitude. 

“That’s so small it’s, like, stupid,” Quentin says scathingly. 

“OK, first of all, it was a test run. Second of all, I thought at least I would get some appreciation for my effort. My labor. My _artistry_. Look, asshole. I think I was _very_ effective at capturing anatomical correctness, here. Do you know how many hours I spent looking at my own dick? There is a _vein_ , Quentin.” 

“If you were looking at your own dick, why did you scale down that much?” Then, abashed: “No, El, it’s really impressive. You’re getting really good at that—” 

“You are such a bitch.” Eliot can’t stop laughing. It’s his turn to be insane, completely out of his mind. To pick Quentin up and bodily carry him to the bed, as Quentin yelps and twines his arms around Eliot’s neck. To guide Quentin through putting his cock in Eliot, while his hands hover nervously at Quentin’s hips, like Eliot’s the one who's never done this before. But he hasn’t, has he? Not really. Not like this. To feel the stretch and burn of Quentin’s perfect cock, to gasp into each other's mouths and to pet at Quentin’s hair as Quentin presses his face helplessly into Eliot’s chest. To whisper, _god, so good, you’re making me feel so good, so full beautiful, it’s gonna feel so good, I’m going to work my cock into you, just like this—_

Finally there’s a result Eliot and Quentin are both satisfied with. Just the right amount of anatomical realism, approx. 5” in length (American male average, also around Quentin’s own size), slim, flared base, lacquered to a smooth finish. 

It’s almost winter. Frost riming the windows of the cottage. A warm boy in Eliot’s bed. Quentin lies on his stomach, head pillowed on his arms. Eliot runs his hand down his spine, over the pert curve of his ass. He watches Quentin worry his lip between his teeth.

“Nervous?”

Eliot expects Quentin to say something like: _Eliot, you’ve made me wait three months, if you don’t hurry up—_

Instead Quentin smiles at him softly. “No. Excited. Ready to have you in me.” 

Eliot almost says, _not tonight, gorgeous_ , but is stopped by Quentin reaching out to where Eliot’s artisanally crafted organic dildo rests, waiting for duty, on the mattress near his hand. By Quentin stroking the wood very gently with his fingers. Eliot’s breath stops, too.

“Yeah. God, me too,” Eliot says, hoarse. 

Eliot strokes Quentin’s ass some more. Gentling him, soothing. Quentin’s hole is relaxed and wet from Eliot’s fingers, and the dildo has been amply lubed up. All that’s left is for Quentin’s body to give itself up, for Eliot to give himself up to its need. It makes Eliot’s cock throb when he presses the slick wooden head of the toy to Quentin’s pink, fluttering rim. There’s something about doing this with no concern for his own pleasure, about being able to watch free from the animal urge to drive himself home to the heart of that tight heat, that is making Eliot hotter than he would have thought possible. He pushes, pushes, watches Quentin’s eager hole spasm and give and finally take the head of the toy inside as his mouth emits a low, guttural cry and his hips shift against the mattress.

“Okay? Q, baby, how does it feel?”

“Good, fuck.” Quentin sounds drunk. He gives a hiccuping laugh. “Fuck, you’re right. It’s—it’s different from a finger. Fuck.”

Talking about it must have made Quentin more aware. Before his body had nearly unconsciously, instinctually, gratefully, allowed the intrusion. There’s some resistance now. “Relax, honey,” Eliot says. Smoothing his palm up Quentin’s trembling thigh. “Bare back, that’s it.”

Another couple inches, slowly, steadily. Quentin whimpers. Eliot urges him to his hands and knees and reaches between his legs; he’s gone almost all the way soft. Eliot presses kisses into the sweet swell of Quentin’s ass. “Touch yourself.”

Eliot has to exert considerable self-command to not take his own advice. His cock _aches_. He’s imagined it so many times: fucking mindlessly into the hot vise of Quentin’s body. Holding Quentin down, pinning his arms to the bed and fucking into him as he contracts around Eliot’s cock, the strong muscles of his thighs clamped against Eliot’s sides. This is—Eliot’s cock isn’t even in him and it’s better—so much better than he could have fucking _dreamed,_ it’s better than any ass he’s ever fucked—the very best—

Now it’s anything but mindless. Eliot thinks he could maybe come just from this, from watching Quentin’s ass clench every time Eliot withdraws the toy so he can fuck it back into him, from hearing the way he keens as if even that momentary loss is unbearable. A ragged shout, the first time Eliot hits his prostate. He’s really feeling it now. Eliot reaches his other hand around and feels Quentin’s hard cock, heavy and hot and slick and throbbing between his legs. 

Quentin comes fucking forward into his own fist, back onto the cock in him, Eliot’s cock, the cock Eliot made with his own hands, chanting, “Fuck me, fuck me, _Eliot_ , you’re fucking me, oh my god, fuck me harder, El, _El_ , fuck, fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> In jessalae's fic, Eliot says that if they were on Earth, he would prepare Quentin to take his canonically huge dick by working up to it with toys, before Quentin dismisses that as inadvisable in their current preindustrial situation...probably correct, but I have some knowledge of historical dildos and that discarded idea struck me as very hot, so I ran with it!
> 
> The [Sex Machine Musuem](https://sexmachinesmuseum.com/) is real. In the year I lived in Prague I passed it many times and although I never actually went in, Eliot and Margo would! Therefore I don't know the actual details of its exhibits, but the website copy says a visit "makes us think about how man has been experimenting since time immemorial in inventing and producing objects to please himself." Indeed!
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](https://honeybabydichotomy.tumblr.com/).


End file.
